


Five Times Sam Axe Kept his Mouth Shut

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Angst, Badass Fiona, Developing Relationship, Dominance, F/M, Fake Marriage, Femdom, Guilt, Kidnapping, Kink, Light BDSM, Obedience, Orgasm Control, Rescue, Romance, Sexual Content, Under-negotiated Kink, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8357236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: Sam/Fiona, from Sam's POV over the years. For PineapplePrincess, for the requests of stylish Fi, romance, and some top-Fi/bottom-Sam smut.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PineapplePrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PineapplePrincess/gifts).



> Fic diverges from canon, and also handwaves any issues that might arise from Michael/Fiona since that is not the focus of the fic.
> 
> Also, Fiona doesn't have a good sense of boundaries.

1\. “And this Is Mrs. Finley,” Sam said, introducing Fiona to the marks. He figured Fi probably hated the whole fake married gambit, but it was the easiest play to avoid suspicion.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said, smiling sweetly at the couple. They seemed charmed enough by her. Actually, they were incredibly friendly to them both. Friendly for a vacationing husband-and-wife, arms-dealing, murdering duo, at any rate. 

Soon they were smalltalking the marks about all sorts of crap – shopping and sports and real estate and the usual parade of fake normalcy that they put out there for their covers. Though the chat about beer and designer shoes had some real meat, for Sam and Fi respectively. Once in a while, Fi would give Sam an affectionate touch, casual, and Sam tried to act like it was perfectly regular for Fiona to leave her hand on his knee for a good long time, or to gently play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Aren’t you a sweet couple?” the woman said a few drinks in (okay, several). Her husband had slipped off to the restroom, and she had semi-whispered to Fi, as if Sam couldn’t hear her from just across the table. “How did you know he was the one?” she asked Fi. 

Sam tensed imperceptibly. Covers needed to have at least a little truth. So what would Fi come up with, as a reason she’d be with him? It was no secret that most of the time he and Fi were just pissed off with each other. Or that they only put up with each other because they were both friends with Mikey.

Fiona smirked. She leaned toward the woman and whispered in her ear, just loud enough for Sam to hear, “The first time I saw him tied up and gagged, I just knew he was a keeper.”

The woman giggled, and Sam, to his mortification, felt himself turning a little red.

Well, screw that. Chuck Finley didn’t blush. 

Sam grinned, and said, “I like a lady who knows how to take charge.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

The woman laughed louder, suddenly realizing that “Chuck” had heard it all, and Sam poured her another drink, hoping she’d let her guard down enough to tell them everything. He kept his outward cool, but felt… a little unnerved. Had Fi said that just to mess with him? Did Fi know somehow that he would … enjoy that image? She was damn perceptive, so she might have noticed that he’d had a stray fantasy or two (or more) about doing exactly that. On the other hand, Fi might very well just assume (with damn good cause) that almost any man would like being tied up by her just fine.

Later that night, as they were going over the next stage of the op, Mikey left them alone to talk out tomorrow’s plans. 

“So… that thing you mentioned with the mark,” Sam said awkwardly.

“What thing?” FI said, with an _almost_ innocent smile.

Sam sighed. “Was there any particular reason you chose to … say that? About me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You mean about Chuck Finley.”

“Fi,” Sam said, sighing. “Just – was there any particular reason for....”

“For what?” 

She was smiling at him, just slightly, with narrowed eyes. 

Unreadable.

“Never mind,” Sam said. 

She looked disappointed for a second, but then she changed the subject to tactics, and they went back into their usual, comfortable pattern of arguing.

\--

2\. The first hint was when Beatriz and Fiona walked to the table with a couple of shopping bags each. Their shopping trip had started early in the morning, and now it was past eight in the evening, and they were all having dinner at a local sushi joint.

Fi could come back from a half hour of shopping with a dozen bags. Sam wasn’t entirely convinced she didn’t go shopping in some sort of time machine. So a full day of shopping for a couple scarves and heels didn't add up one bit. 

The next hint was that when Beatriz came to give him a kiss on the cheek before sitting down. Her knuckles were bruised. And she seemed sore and tired as she sat down.

 _Shopping all day, my ass,_ Sam thought to himself. Clearly, Fi had spent the day training Beatriz. Hand-to-hand definitely, and tactics and explosives too, if he knew Fi. 

Sam had taught Beatriz a few things, sure. He knew she took risks, and he wanted her to be as prepared as possible. But Beatriz was a lot closer to Fi’s size, and Fi regularly took down guys who outweighed her three to one. If he couldn’t convince Beatriz to pick safer stories when she went back home, then he was at least glad Fi had spent the day teaching her some things. There was probably no one better to do it.

Of course, Sam had actually been a little resentful that morning when he heard that they were spending the day shopping without him. But he should have known that Fi would have his back – and Beatriz's too – in ways that he couldn’t expect.

He looked over at Fi, who was chatting happily with Beatriz about Fendi and some other fancy sounding stuff. He felt a swell of gratitude toward her. 

“What are you looking at?” Fi said, head cocked.

“Nothing,” he said. “But hey, dinner’s on me.”

“Do you hear that flapping sound?” Fi asked Beatriz then.

“What?”

“If Sam’s actually paying, then I must hear pigs flying,” Fiona said with a wicked smile, and Beatriz giggled.

“Ha, ha,” Sam said, letting his sarcasm cover what he knew: Fi didn’t want a thank you. She was happier thinking Sam had no idea.

\--

3\. Sam woke to the sounds of gunfire. 

He wasn’t sure if that would be good news or bad news for him. 

He strained against the ropes that were holding him in the chair. He had taken some knife wounds, superficial sure, but enough that he didn’t think it was a good idea to slam his body onto the floor if he didn’t have to.

But the gunfire was getting closer.

He felt his chest tighten with nerves, and he set his jaw in determination. The right move would be to see which of his kidnappers’ enemies had showed up, and then try to talk his way to surviving. Play the con game. There was only the tiniest chance it would work, but he had to take a shot at it.

The problem was, he was still dizzy from being knocked on the head. Chuck Finley wouldn’t be in top form.

He was starting to wonder if maybe he should just topple over and play dead, even if it reopened his wounds, when the gunfire stopped.

He heard the door open behind him and a voice, emotional. Scared.

“Sam!”

Fiona.

He let out a breath, almost shuddering. He hadn’t even realized how terrified he was until now. But he had been pretty sure it was the end, and now … it wasn’t.

Fiona cut his ropes quickly, then helped him to stand.

“Are they--”

“We’re okay to leave,” Fi said, then paused. “Michael and Jesse couldn’t get back to Miami in time, so I had to do things the messy way.” Her voice cracked a little.

Sam nodded, and tried not to lean on her too much as they headed out. 

As they walked into the foyer, he saw what she meant. There were 15 lying dead on the floor.

Fiona had shot up a small army to get him back.

Sam swallowed and looked over at her.

But she wasn't looking back. She was staring forward, avoiding looking at the fallen.

They managed to get to her car, even though Sam was stumbling a lot more than he’d like to admit, and soon they were speeding toward the hospital. 

He watched her as she drove, the tightness of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. He could tell she felt guilty, that she still felt it when she made a kill, especially when it was killing guys who were just doing what they were hired to do. And taking that many lives in one fell swoop was never easy. Fi had given up on doing that kind of damage a long time ago, not that she ever talked about it with Sam.

He wanted to tell her right then not to feel guilty. For what she had to do to save him, or for anything else. He didn’t know everything about her story, but he knew enough. He knew the kind of person she was, and he hated seeing her like this, like she’s wrestling with whether she’s a monster.

Sam’s known some monsters. Fiona isn’t one of them.

Hell, in his eyes, Fiona was an angel and a general and Wonder Woman all rolled up into one. 

He wanted to tell her this. He wanted to hold her tight and tell her that she doesn’t need to feel any of it -- the fear, the disgust, the guilt – he wanted to beg her to let him take that all, let it drip out and fall away like old rainwater. 

But he was feeling that bump on his head more than ever, and he managed to mumble her name only once before passing out.

\--

4\. The first time, it starts with an argument. 

They’ve argued a thousand times, of course, and Sam has no idea why this time it leads to anything different.

But somehow, this time it leads to her kissing him, rough, as she pulls him down by the collar. 

And then she pulls back, looks at him, waiting for him to object.

He licks his lips.

She grins, anger and lust, and shoves him back against the wall, and he lets her, savoring the impact against his back, the feel of her nails digging into his shoulders. His shirt ripped, her teeth scraping against his nipple. 

When they fall into bed, she straddles him, lowering herself onto him as she stares into his eyes. 

It's the best thing he’s ever seen in his life.

She rides him, moving her body back and forth roughly, and Sam responds, his hands caressing her thighs, then reaching up to her breasts.

She quickens the pace, and Sam can feel himself getting close. But she stops and lands a hard smack onto the side of his thigh. 

“Don’t you dare come until I tell you to,” she says. Her voice brooks no challenge, but he can see in her eyes that she’s not sure he wants this, that she’s asking and not telling.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says, and her eyes go dark.

“You sure you can manage that?” she says with a smile, grinding a circle.

Sam breathes a little harder but says, “I’m very good at obeying orders.”

She starts again, rhythm fast, and Sam keeps his promise. She comes twice riding him before giving him permission, and when he does, she gives a smirk that just gloats victory and says, pinching his hip, “Good boy.”

She moves to lie next to him then, puts her arms around him while they both catch their breath. Soon he’s asleep in her arms, and for once he dreams of nothing but sweetness.

In the morning, he wakes up and walks into the living room to find Fiona sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing one of Sam’s T-shirts, her hair up in pigtails. She’s concentrating on the various explosive components on the floor around her as she constructs her latest set of devices, like a kid working on an especially fun jigsaw puzzle.

It may be the most adorable thing Sam’s ever seen, and it fills his chest with something too dumb and warm to speak out loud.

“What?” Fiona says impatiently, looking up at him, clearly noticing that he was just standing there and watching.

“Nothing. Do you want breakfast? I make a mean scrambled eggs.”

She shrugs, like she doesn't give a damn, but he can see the small smile of relief and so he knows she does. “I like eggs.”

\--

5\. They had been together for a year when Sam came home one day to find his apartment redecorated.

With Fiona’s furniture.

He looked around. Her dishes were in the kitchen cabinet, next to his three old coffee mugs. The closet was about 80% full of her clothes now. And the ammo closet (okay, it was supposed to be a linen closet when he had first moved in) was now half wire storage and half designer shoes. 

He turned as he heard her walk into the hallway, and she leaned, one arm on the wall, standing there in a sundress. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she almost looked… nervous. She was watching him closely, waiting for what he would say, expecting a rant maybe about how crazy she was for doing this. 

He grinned and walked over to her, kissed her long and slow. He didn’t need to say a thing.


End file.
